Duong Huong - The Zenith

Then he turned to tell Nong Tai, “Did you hear what the driver said? From today on we are going to operate in this hot Lao wind. Now we sleep to get some strength.”

“The road shakes us like dice, how can we sleep?”

“Then just close your eyes.”

The driver turned and added: “It’s true; any minute you close your eyes is good for that minute. In a little while, when the sun rises, your eyes will be blinded as if needles were piercing them. Visitors from the north all complain about the hot sun of Nghe An.”

“The birthplace of the president with the surname Chi!”

“That’s totally correct,” said the carriage driver, who then started singing: “‘A poor land gives birth to heroes…’”

“You sing really well,” An praised him, with this thought in his mind: “Yes, indeed he is a hero. But he is also the greatest coward on this earth, a husband who cannot protect a wife; a father unable to protect his children.”

Outside the city, houses became sparse. Looking back, Vinh was now only an undifferentiated mass under a couple of tall chimneys spewing dirty black smoke.

An asked the driver, “Can we get to the border before nighttime?”

“It depends: on the running legs of the horses; on whether it shines or rains. This time of year the weather is unpredictable; it may be sunny with bright blue skies, then suddenly, thundering, stormy rain comes. The meteorologists never predict accurately storms in the central region. But if we are lucky and the horses do not act up along the way, we will be at the border post when the sun is still high at one pole over the top of the mountains.”

“About four p.m. then; is that what you want to say?”

“I do not look at time much. This profession binds us to the road day and night. But I remember when the carriage has reached there, the sun is higher than the mountain on the west by about one pole.”

“The sooner the better. After the border, we still have to walk a long way.”

An looked at the rows of dry hills ahead, which they must cross before reaching the border: they were empty and spacious; one could cast one’s eyes all the way to the foot of the sky. Not a wood, not a mountain, but never-ending naked hills with low-growing thorny plants no taller than an arm is long and other kinds of ferns. If you were being chased here, your death was guaranteed.

An wondered if the That Khe border office had received an order to look for them yet. He can easily imagine what is going on back in Hanoi. First his own division, then that of Nong Tai, would report the disappearance of two from the “minorities.” According to regulations, it would then take twenty-four hours for a search order to be issued, but, in this case, Minister Quoc Tuy would probably make a move sooner. On all the boats going up to Lang Son and Lao Cai, soldiers would be put on the lookout to catch the two “defectors.” They would probably charge them with some crime to justify the order to “hunt down the criminals.” If not a crime of robbing and killing, then it would be spying for foreigners. And that one would be the most convenient crime with which to arouse the hatred and spite of the people:

“They have become dangerous spies plotting to overthrow the government and taking money from foreigners. There is no other explanation.”

An recalled all the times he had stood under the flag to swear loyally to fight for the nation, to destroy every enemy who threatened the socialist principle of the people. Now he has become that very enemy — he and Nong Tai sitting there, looking at the scenery. Life is a terrible fraud indeed that so many million people had become a powerless mass — each and every one of them hooked by the nose like a herd of buffalo.

An’s thoughts continue:

“And the two women, what will they do to them?

“They will do nothing because they are prisoners in that upper room, and they have no way to fight back. But the two guards will be called in and advised to keep quiet.

“Would those two pitiful ones have guts enough to escape?

“No! Even if they have the guts, they will have no chance to do so. After Nong Tai’s escape, they will constantly live under the surveillance of guards. They will swallow bitterness and pretend to be mute and deaf, to be just walking corpses, or else wooden figures standing in long halls without sunlight.

“The sex-addict minister will not soon change the guards. Perhaps in a week, or two, or three? It will depend on his sexual appetite. After he has satiated his bestial desire, the two women and the guards will all perish together. As he himself had done, those two soldiers most definitely had also raised their hands thousands of times under the flag, swearing to destroy the enemies of the people and protect the nation!”

“Why are you laughing? What are you laughing about?” Nong Tai suddenly asked.

An quickly replied: “I remembered a funny story.”

“Then tell me, I am bored.”

“I cannot. It’s very gross.”

Nong Tai was silent and annoyed.

An caught on that he had a tendency to force laughter when pain gnawed at his heart. This strange habit — just formed — had become a skill as if it had been part of him forever.

“The man from Xiu Village is completely dead, I don’t see him anymore,” he thought, and a few moments later a pitiful question arose:

“And the two children? What will these dogs do to them?”

He visualized little Mui’s black eyes; her sweet breath when she whispered in his ears; the gentle swish of her hair brushing his cheeks; the warm and sweet feeling each time the little girl put her tiny hands in his large ones — the hands of a hunter. At the thought, An felt a sharp knife scraping his heart as blood dripped from the wound.

“No! I must not think of these things anymore. Just believe that behind me is a silent and dark grave. There is nobody left. No Xiu Village; not even my uncle and aunt or my parents-in-law. All are removed from this earth. I will be the last one. The last one must live to report on these Vietnamese executioners. I must do that at all cost…”

Suddenly An felt weary. He told Nong Tai, “Let’s lie down. My back really hurts. The bench is long enough for four people, therefore we can stretch our legs comfortably. Don’t forget that past the border post there will be no horse or buffalo cart, but only a pair of feet. The road is long and steep, it will not be easy.”

“Just rest, Comrades. I will let you know when we arrive,” said the driver.

“I will pay you the balance when we see the border outpost,” An reiterated. “If the horses are well and we are earlier than usual, I will pay you extra to buy corn and honey to feed them.”

“That will do,” the cart owner cheerfully answered. He then started singing an old-style song that An had never heard. His voice was warm and resonated loudly in the deserted hills. He must have been a singer during his youth, just like the artists who had played the flute all night in Xiu Village. He lay down on the bench, listening attentively to the song. The local verses mixed in a coarse manner with poems and proverbs, rather ordinary:

Dear lady from the other side of the river,

You in the bright shirt, wrapped in a pink scarf,

Are you married or waiting for someone to come and ask?

If you are married but your husband is away, come here to me.

Here it is deserted and quiet, nobody will see.

Don’t be shy; life is short; no more than a hand’s span.

Pretty one, trundle on over here.

The panels of your dress fly up; exciting my burning heart,

As if I walk on fire, sit on charcoal…